


Cataclysmic

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Grief, Post canon, briefly mentioned drunk driving resulting in a death, briefly mentioned gun violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22560910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Two women, alone, after the destruction of Earth
Relationships: Female Boss (Saints Row)/Asha Odekar
Kudos: 8





	Cataclysmic

**Author's Note:**

> happy femslash feb everyone. this is my first time writing from my boss's perspective so....It was different to write, but still fun.

“I’ve been having strange dreams lately.” 

“About what?” 

“Earth, mostly.” 

“I suppose that’s to be expected.” 

There was a rustle of fabric, and then a light flickered on to illuminate Asha’s face. She is utterly engulfed by Zinyak’s bed, the red and black silk feeling fabric settling around her waist in gentle curves. 

She always hated silk sheets, they were hot and slippery. Mars had always brought cotton sheets for herself, but it seems Zinyak was only in it for the status. She found it difficult to imagine him sleeping, and when she did she found the image funny. But why else would he have this giant bed, and these horrible sheets and fifteen equally giant copies of Pride and Prejudice? 

“Do you dream about home?” Asha looked thoughtful and then rested back on the palms of her hands. 

“I don’t usually remember my dreams.” She said, her voice was almost wistful. Or, as close as Asha was able to get. “And when I do, it’s just tiny flashes of colour and sound, fragments of memories that I nearly forgot. It's probably for the best, I know now my mind can create some pretty hell-ish scenarios." 

“I think I’d be sad if I couldn’t remember my dreams. It’s nice to see them again.” 

“You can see them whenever you want with the time machine.” 

“Have you gone back in time to see your family, or, dear motherland?” Mars asked, even though she already knew the answer. No one had gone back to their personal timelines, no one seemed to want to. The changes they made never stuck, so it didn’t seem like a worthwhile endeavor. It wasn’t like she could save any of them. Future Shaundi refused to tell her how to make them stick, claiming it was something that they’d need to figure out for themselves in a suitably ominous tone. 

“No, I haven’t,” Asha admitted, sounding slightly defeated. 

“It hurts too much, right?” 

“Hm.” She responded noncommittally. 

Mars suddenly found that she couldn’t take the feeling of the silk on her skin for one minute longer and stumbled to her feet. The metal ground was cold under her bare toes as she made her way to the window. It looked out over the throne room, as if to suggest that Zinyak was so obsessed with his own power that he needed to see the monument built too it all the time. Maybe she could find some kind of space interior designers, have the whole thing gutted. Make it purple. 

There was still so much to do, and it felt like she was forever running out of time. She shut her eyes, and tried to imagine opening those disgusting goo pods and finding her family inside. But, she can’t. Because her family were ordinary, if extremely loving, people. When she was a word famous gang leader, their normalcy had been a blessing, but now had it inadvertently killed them? 

It’s all too much. 

She opened her eyes, and sighed, staring out at the darkened throne room. Heavy is the head, they would say. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. 

“You asked me about my father, after we killed evil me, with her stupid little mustache.” 

“I did,” Asha said, the fabric rustling again as she stood and walked up behind her. “You told me you didn’t think it mattered.”

“His name was Matthew, he killed my mother while driving drunk.”

“No one would blame you for having...Issues. Is that what you have dreams about?” She said, leaning on the opposite side of the window frame. The dim red light from the lamp casts long shadows on her face. Her fringe is stuck in her eyelashes, but she hasn’t noticed yet.

“Sometimes. But they're mostly about how my life could have been. Other Marshall's, and who they were. What about your old man?” She asked, to change the subject. 

“He was military.” Asha said, “Died when I was a teenager.” 

“Oh, that's awful. I was only a baby when my mother died.” 

“He died during a routine training exercise. Shot in friendly fire on home turf.” She tried to imagine it, but she can't. What a horrible way to die. 

“And your mother?” Mars asked, even though it felt wrong to pry. But, she tried to remind herself, Asha brought it up before. She was clearly okay talking about it. 

“She did her best, on her own. Remarried, settled down again.” 

“But you wanted something else for your life.” 

Asha broke eye contact, choosing instead to look out the window. There are goosebumps rising along her bare shoulders. She can only just stop herself from reaching out to touch her. 

“It wasn’t a bad life.” 

“But it wasn’t what you were put on this earth to do.” She realizes what she’s said all too late, and put one of her hands upon the glass. It’s almost as if she can block the throne from sight, but ultimately it’s just like putting white-out on a computer screen. A band-aid on a gaping wound. “Sorry.”

Asha laughed and then sniffled a little. It’s not a sound Mars has ever heard her make before, and she treasures it just like she treasures every other new sound she hears from her. But it probably would have been better if she could go a night without making her new flame (friend?) cry. 

“It’s not...It’s fine. You’re right. I wasn’t put here to marry a neighbor boy, settle down and have kids. I was put here to fight, to right wrongs, and fix problems.”

“I was put here to make those problems.” 

“Maybe. But I’m glad I met you.” The revelation sat heavy between them, but Asha barrelled on before Mars really has time to process it. Maybe that was a good thing, she could occasionally get a little bit...Mushy when speaking to beautiful women. “What about your father then? Did he get fined?” 

“He got sent to jail, actually. For most of my young life.” 

“So who raised you?” 

“My aunt, Angela. You met her, she was the one at the White Crib who came into the meeting to offer you sugar cookies.” 

“That was your aunt? I thought that was your sister. How old was she when you were born?”

“Nineteen. She adopted me the same year. I do have a brother, though.”

“Older or younger?” 

“Younger. Much younger. He’s seventeen. Was seventeen.” 

“Your father’s second child, then.” 

“Yeah. Got remarried in prison and knocked the poor girl up the day he got out. Then I was a big sister.” 

“A fun one, I can only imagine.” She was a fun sister. She took him out trick or treating. She was teaching him to drive. She brought him gifts that a teenage boy might actually want. She also actually listened to him when he had something to say. If not for him, he would have cut off contact with their father. There's only so much disrespect she could handle from a man whose mortgage she paid for. Only so many times she could be told love the sinner hate the sin. But she loved her brother. He was a good kid, and he would have grown into a good man.

“I did all the things his stuffy cult-y parents wouldn’t. It’s why there was a Playstation in the crib, in case he was there.” 

Her smile faltered, and she looked back over at the throne and then back at Asha. Her face looked pained. This was a bad idea. Sharing family shit is always a bad idea. A wave of marrow-deep sadness washed over her whole body like she was suddenly plunged into cold, stormy water. One of her hands came to her mouth, rolling the scar on her top lip between them. A bad nervous habit. 

Earth was really gone, and so was everyone on it. How do you accept that? How can you possibly move on from such a cataclysmic loss? Maybe, more importantly, should she? It’s just a torrent of sadness, after a day of dripping sadness onto her hair and face. It's written on the faces of the other Saints. They won't say it to her face, but they're all thinking it. Mars fucks up again, Mars learns that there are consequences for her actions, Mars cannot sacrifice herself for the greater good. How can any one person be expected to hold the whole weight of humanity on their shoulders?

“Do you think Zinyak was right? Did I kill them?” 

Asha’s face was a perfect mask of impassive, uncaring stillness. Jesus, not even an hour ago she was gleefully conquering erogenous zones and now she can barely hold her eyes. Everything about this life that she’d been thrown into was so deeply, truly fucked. It was all fucked. Everything, even her. 

“I can’t help you, you’ll have to find an answer to that yourself.” Her voice is soft, a quiet, soothing hush cast into the cavernous, empty room.

“But what if I don’t like my answer?” 

“Then you’ll have to come to terms with it.” She wants to ask how, but she knew Asha didn’t know the answer to that any more than she did. So she did all she could do and stayed where she was, gazing out at the throne. Asha reached out one warm hand and took hold of the one she had on her lip. 

Both hands came to rest on the windowsill, red light from the lamp making tall shadows in the throne room below, devoid of even an ounce of natural light. 

Then, Asha stayed.


End file.
